Words are how I enter the world…

Il Mio Ritorno*

I hope you can forgive my long silence. I returned from Italy a month ago today and have yet to write a word aside from the occasional Facebook bleat.

I came back deliciously exhausted by three weeks filled with excessive quantities of inexcusably delicious food, heart stopping scenery, beautiful Italians and hideous tourists. Few of the clothes I’d packed still fit, I was so tired I could not hold my head up and I could not have been more pleased with how I got my extensive blisters. To my dismay, so far the most lasting memory of this most amazing trip has been more than a little disconcerting.

For the past thirty days, I have suffered the oddest malady. On the first leg of my return flight home, as my flight from Venice descended to land at Heathrow, my ears “pressurized.” It was not my first flight so I wasn’t unaccustomed to the uncomfortable sensation, though this seemed especially painful. We hung at the awkward altitude for a bit as we waited to be cleared, so it was also a bit more protracted than usual, but still. My left ear went back to normal as we landed but not the right one.

It’s been thirty days.

I’ve been through doctors, anti-inflammatories, endless anti-histamines, even steroids and no change. Thursday, another specialist and I hope . . . but we’ll see.

My point, dear readers is to let you know I haven’t forgotten you.

I have however been hopped up on allergy pills, roided into a stupor, sleeping at odd times and fitfully even then. My protracted case of the mini-bends has put half my world on mute and given a mild case of inner ear disorientation, but that’s not the worst of it. There has been a bad horror movie sound track – all heart beats and breathing (mine) – echoing in my head since London THIRTY DAYS AGO!

You know I almost never use exclamation points so you can tell just how strung out I am.

Meanwhile, every time I sit down to write, it’s not bad enough I’m hopped up on some med or other, I feel as though I’m appearing in a bad version of the Tell Tale Heart.

But I can bear my isolation no longer.

It is time to write about Italy, at least. I can wait no longer (and the pictures are too good not to share). So I’ll see how it goes. If you don’t hear from me for a while, you’ll know there’s Raven, perched on the scalp of some Italian souvenir bust or other, croaking at me in triumph “Nevermore.”

On the plus side, unless Thursdays’ specialist is a miracle worker, I probably won’t hear him.

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4 Responses

Bentornato! We didn’t forget you either. The ear, that sounds odd. Hope that turns out ok. But hey, feeling weird? Turn it into a screenplay!
And about Italy, would love to hear about it- sounds magnificent, despite an odd soundtrack. I hear the food in Italy is amazing; still haven’t seen Eat Pray Love (I was going to buy it, but Inglourious Basterds was 50% off. Sorry Julia Roberts… Quentin Tarantino will always win against you in my brain) but that allegedly had some kind of focus on good (Italian) food! If it helps at all, I got (though mostly clear) braces about a week ago and have had to take headache meds ever since to not have a completely sore mouth. But hey, KROQ played my song. And I won pit tickets to see MUSE at LA Rising. (In case you don’t understand the near religious passion fans have towards Muse, I quote my friend Bryan- “I’m not gay… but if Matt asked me to get in bed with him, I wouldn’t say no!”. *Matt Bellamy is the frontman of Muse. He’s totally stunning, and Muse are incredibly phenomenal. They’re the best live band alive.) Oh, gosh. Midnight and I’m ending this with a Muse rave…..

Well, have a good night, or good morning, or whenever you read this, and best of luck with the ear!

You have my deepest sympathy for the ear problem and my heartiest congratulations for a fabulous trip to Italy with all it’s ensuing memories. I hope that the latter will outweigh the former this time next week.
I was in Italy as a child as a Boy Scout and on vacation with my parents. We stayed at a small cottage on the Italian Riveria and I remember the sticky burrs in the sand keeping me from walking barefoot. At the time, I saw no difference between Italy and Texas because of the damn sticky burrs.

Eric Shaw Quinn

Eric Shaw Quinn is a New York Times bestselling author. He grew up in and escaped from small towns in the south. Among his greatest fears is the dread that they will find him and make him go back, not that small southern towns are so bad, but he fears his marksmanship scores would be too low.

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